Category Archives: musings

It’s been bumping around in this noggin of mine for awhile, but I’ve been back and forth a dozen times about the format. After a week of slowing down and preparing this nest of ours for the slower winter months, it all started coming together…in a single word:

{ i n h a b i t }

The word itself somehow slows me. It implies stillness, not frenzy. In the hustle and bustle of busy family life, I often find myself disconnected from the steady cadence that brings warmth and meaning to our days. And I’m relearning that habits make it easier to inhabit – to really dwell within these walls and engage these beautiful ones entrusted to my care. Fully dwelling here does not happen by chance. It is too easily trampled by the unending list of “to-do” that can weary, body and soul. Through the coming cold gray, I would like to make this space a bit warmer, and what better way than with kind friends and creative conversation. At each week’s close, we’ll gather round the kitchen table (you’ll be able to link to your own space). All are welcome. Bring your words and pictures along. You’ll be needing them. (You may tap out a post just for this purpose, or, if you prefer, link to a relevant post in your archives). We’ll be talking about comfort and cadence, traditions and time, hints and habits. Refreshment and ritual for turning our homes into places we truly inhabit. So bring your grandmother’s muffin recipe or that great idea you had for displaying your little Picasso’s paintings. Perhaps a new tradition is taking root around the family table, or you rearranged to make that nook under the staircase a bit more inviting. Let’s slow down. We’ll linger the whole weekend through. Why rush? I’ll look forward to seeing you on Friday for the first go-around, and if you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask. I’ll answer your questions in the comments.

Like this:

Work. Dawn to dusk, it never ends here. For a moment, the charm of these rolling acres folds back like a curtain and I see the black and white of it – predictability….repitition…and dare I say, monotony. But here the picture clears. It’s not a list. It’s life. It’s not the interruption. It’s the rhythm. My mind wanders home, to the brick house on the small lot with the laundry mountains and the willful child and the weary waking to do it all over again, but the picture sharpens. And this ever so small shift shakes my tired hands and heart of their lethargy. Weighty chains of something too closely resembling resentment are wrung from the day’s duties with such force I can hear them chink and clatter in the fall. The veil between sacred and ordinary lifts and work and worship marry in the shadow of the wise old oaks…and I am revived.

Like this:

I’m waiting for that call – the one that jolts me from a sound sleep and sends me fumbling for the nightstand to silence the jingle. I imagine her voice, calm and steady in my ear across the miles: We’re on our way. This is it. And I’ll whisper some sort of half asleep nonsense to bolster her confidence that we’ll later laugh about, then quiet prayers for safe travel…for her and you, and try to find sleep again, but chances are it won’t come. And I’ll lie in the darkness thinking about you and the gifts and wondering if the blanket will be just right and if you’ll grow to love the Henry that lives between these pages as we have. And the sun will rise too early. The long silence will last too long and I’ll be waiting for the next call – the one where she’s breathless and tired and you’re crying the melody we’ve waited to hear and I’ll whisper thank you for Grace that brought you safe thus far.

Like this:

They’re scattered everywhere – relics of another season of sowing and reaping, springtime and harvest, propped against outbuildings and oaks. Whose hands and hearts have nursed these fertile acres? My eyes fall across the land – a patchwork of emerald and straw drapes hill and valley. A door slams, interrupting my thoughts and I see her across the yard, one loyal companion beside. A nod and a half-smile and we exchange a few words about the peacefulness of this place she calls home and the old dog and the dark sky. There’s something about her that begs knowing – this grandmother with the work-worn hands and piercing eyes – but I shy away from questions. There is much to be done, and soon before this rain presses in.

Like this:

The rich hues of this season’s harvest catch her eye against the weathered brown of the porch planks and she ambles up the steps for a closer look. Dried corn and rusted chimes swing from the rafters. Bees buzz. She makes her rounds…potatoes, gourds, squash, pumpkins and I explain and I can see all the turning – the husk in her hand and the wheels in her head. She looks up at me with an expression that borders on disbelief. So this is really how it is? Seeds sleep in brown velvet, rain bathes, sun beckons upward, and they become this? And I frown that the miracle was so long ago lost on me. And as I’m speaking cold hard facts into the upturned face of this explorer, I find myself suddenly awash with wonder at the wonderful and worshipping.

Like this:

She’s wide open crossing the yard and I know the destination by heart. Opportunity for distraction abounds at every turn but her compass is clearly set and on her heels I can see why. With her in view, they bound full speed on spindly legs to give the wee guest a proper hello. I remind myself that there is a fence between them and her own wobbly self, hold my momma tongue, and whisper thanks that there are places to let little people just be without too much fuss. Brown eyes dance merrily and two hands and a sea of noses slip and slide in and out along the fence line – greetings exchanged…plans made. I watch them, nose to nose, and wonder who is, in fact, the more curious creature – girl or goat. After a few minutes of catching up, she’s off again and I hurry my step to keep her in my sights. It feels different than before – quieter – as if everyone and everything is readying for autumn’s steady creeping. But heads lift as her feet pound out the distance between them, and soft eyes brighten against the grey morning as the sound of her girlish giggles rolls over the hills…

Like this:

We tumble out of the car into grey light and heavy air, thick with morning dampness and anticipation. Not three steps across the gravel, her hand wriggles free and she takes flight past the old barn. Today, she knows this place and no fear. And I smile remembering the timid girl of five months before, dodging bees and piddling in my shadow, impatient eyes peering out from her wide-brimmed hat, while her grandmother and I plundered the strawberry patch. Funny…this nearly November morning seems more balmy than that one. My eyes chase her and the ominous billows skating on the horizon. Please, don’t rain. The wind presses again, undressing the old oak. He hurls his cache of acorns, pinging out autumn’s melody in a harsh strain on the tin roof.